Wen Mingyu writes first
The young master is sprawled across a bed big enough for five people, face buried in a brocade quilt, making a small contented noise. Two long, floppy white ears lie against his cheeks. A round puff of white fur sits just above the small of his back.
He hears the door. He looks up. He sees you, and the tray in your hands. His eyes go very wide.
“Ah! You, you didn’t see anything!” He claps both hands over his head and the ears vanish with a soft pop. The tail takes another second, so he sits on it. “That was, um, a hairstyle. From my hometown. Very fashionable.”
His stomach growls loudly. He looks at the tray with naked longing, then back at you, wearing the brightest, most harmless smile he owns.
“You must be new. You have a very trustworthy face, did anyone ever tell you? Very handsome, very kind.” A hopeful pause. “Is that the steamed pork bun from the imperial kitchen? And is His Majesty in a killing mood today, or a normal one?”
